


Morning Comes

by TK_DuVeraun



Series: Legacies (SW:TOR) [10]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Dark, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Plot, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: In fourteen days, Fox will die to the curses in his blood. His lover, Morathis, doesn’t understand why he won’t go for the easy solution. He’s killed before. What’s one more murder?---Prequel toThe Fox and the Hound; however, it will spoil some elements of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tarot card featuring Fox](https://elalavella.tumblr.com/post/171061889769/spread-my-legacy-like-wildfire-through-a-forest) drawn by Elalavella. In my head I always imagined Fox with long hair, but this image is so defining of his character that I decided to instead write a backstory for why he chopped it all off.
> 
> This is dark and has an unhappy ending and may make sensitive readers uncomfortable. Please use discretion.

There’s a quiet  _ drip, drip _ as blood falls in measured droplets onto an intricate ritual circle. The circle takes up a quarter of the lab’s floor, red lines swirling and intersecting around and between runes that glow softly purple. Fox stands at a tall, durasteel table his long red hair tied back in a neat tail that belies how long he’s been awake and working on his ritual. His hands are held up at shoulder height, one on either side of, but not touching, a red, smoking datacron. His eyes hold the same purple glow as the runes on the floor.

His expression is sour, mouth twisted down and a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. Every now and then he silently mouths a word and one of the runes on the floor flashes in resonance. He doesn’t respond to the knock on the lab door, nor does he even seem to notice it.

Imperial Captain Ivan Mardh enters the lab and stands still and silent for several minutes in his sharply pressed uniform. When his commander still doesn’t react, he clears his throat and says, “My Lord, it’s time.”

“I am  _ aware, _ Ivan. Why do you think I’m here?” Fox snarls. He spins away from the table and throws the datacron to the floor where it shatters into a thousand pieces. They fly through the air and bounce off of an invisible shield around the ritual circle. Fox holds his hand up and a Force crystal flies into it from the wreckage.

“We have to leave for your meeting with the mayor,” Mardh says, unruffled by the casual display of power and anger.

Fox’s irises are a chilling yellow as he stares his captain down. “I’m dead in two weeks; what do I care for a  _ mayor, _ of all things?”

“It’s  _ home, _ My Lord. You will care when the madness passes.”

Fox waves a dismissive hand and unwittingly puts enough Force behind it that Mardh is pushed back several inches. Fox says, “What do the dead care for the living?”

When Mardh has nothing else to say, Fox turns away from him with a spin that sends his ponytail swishing behind him. He kneels near the circle and his hands dance through the air in complex gestures accompanied by Ancient Sith words that don’t seem to be coming from Fox’s mouth.

The door opens again, but instead of Mardh, it’s Morathis. He’s a tall Chiss in Ascendency regalia and the broken crown of House Arimo pinned to his lapel. With the same fearlessness Mardh showed, he walks into the lab and even goes so far as to touch Fox’s shoulder. “Dear heart, this cannot wait, as you well know. Your soul won’t rest easy if you leave Olkin II unprotected.”

Fox snarls and pulls away, but Morathis grabs him by the hair and holds a cursed knife to the Sith’s throat. Morathis’ voice is low and threatening when he speaks again. “We’re going. Let your death meet you some hours quicker or have it  _ now _ .”

Whether it’s the words or the curse on the knife, Fox seems to come back to himself, wilting in place and pressing his palms against the cold, stone floor. Fox’s voice is quiet and he sounds fragile and lost when he speaks. “It’s not going to work, Rathi. I just don’t have the power to bypass her control of the curses.”

Morathis takes Fox’s arm and half-pulls him to his feet. He inspects his lover for signs of fresh curse or injury, but Fox is still marked only from where he’s tapped his own veins to fuel to ritual circle. He turns his red eyes back to Fox’s and looks  _ inside _ of him. “You will find a way. You’re a savior. It’s the role you were born to.”

Fox cups his lover’s cheek for a moment and returns the intense eye contact, but he says nothing. When the moment is passed, he steps away and pulls a on decorated Sith over robe. He carefully places a grotesque, grey-skinned mask over his face the red lines that make up the Sa’alle marks sharp contrast to the black and silver of his robes. With his back still to Morathis, Fox says, “It requires a sacrifice equal to what I would gain. Everything in balance in the Force.”

“And what’s one life for the entire colony?” Morathis asks, his voice a cold, hard counterpoint to the despair in Fox’s.

“Then let it be mine. Octavian will watch over them.”

“Aucht doesn’t have the political clout and you know it. They need  _ you. _ ”

Fox stuffs his ponytail into his robe and pulls his hood forward into place. He finally turns to Morathis and puts his hands on the other man’s shoulders. His tone carries forced levity when he says, “You mean  _ you _ need me. I won’t cut out my soul to keep my body alive, Rathi. And you wouldn’t care for me nearly so much if I would.”

“If you must have the Affliction, you may as well use it.”

“Careful, or I’ll appoint you as steward over the moon.”

“You have no authority over me,” Morathis says. His expression softens just a little as he hears the shift in Fox’s tone. He gives Fox’s bare hand a squeeze before the other man pulls on his gloves.

“Perhaps I don’t. Best not to test it, though.”

\---

Morathis doesn’t let Fox return to his lab after inducting the mayor via a ridiculously long holocall. The Chiss keeps an iron grip on Fox’s arm and pulls him back to his own quarters, so he can’t retreat into more research. Even without the Force, Fox could tear himself away, but his protests are token. He lets Morathis shove him into a low-backed chair and dutifully eats the food his protocol droid brings out a moment later.

Fox tilts his head back and looks over his shoulder at Morathis. He says, “It takes more than two weeks to starve to death, you know. I rather have a bigger problem right now.”

Morathis raps Fox’s shoulder with a hairbrush and then uses his right hand to turn Fox’s head forward. He pulls the tie out of Fox’s hair and starts brushing down the length, though it’s hardly knotted from only working in his lab. Morathis says, “I rather wish you would stop treating your death as a given. Sybil isn’t that strong.”

“Even if not for the curses, she has the cult. It’s not so easy as to stand and fight.” Fox tries to look over his shoulder again and receives another rap from the hairbrush.

“Stop moving.”

“No one’s going to see it.”

Morathis’s hands tighten in Fox’s hair, pulling sharply. His voice is as cold and hard as it had been when he dragged Fox from his lab. “If I have to listen to you soliloquize and justify your death, you’ll let me have this.”

Fox keeps his head still, but reaches back to touch Morathis’s wrist. “I told you to get yourself reassigned months ago.”

“I chose to stay then and I choose to stay now. Your sister’s proclivities aren’t ghastly enough to make my association with House Sa’alle anything less than a boon to House Arimo.” Morathis leans in and whispers in Fox’s ear, “And what would I do without my Sith lover to fill my free time?”

Fox pointedly doesn’t suppress his shiver. “I thought free time was anathema to Chiss.”

“And when I’m here, who’s to know I’m not spending my time optimizing your operations?” Morathis sets down the hairbrush and starts pulling Fox’s hair into tight braids. In between plaits he drops a datapad into Fox’s lap. “Levitate that for me. I have messages from the family, now that you mention it.”

“Yes, dear. All the power of the Force at your command and you want something levitated?” Despite his complaint, Fox activates and levitates the datapad near Morathis’ head.

“If it’s so bloody useful, why do you have so much staff?” Morathis doesn’t seem to expect a response to his question. He continues braiding, occasionally pausing to scroll through his messages. 

Fox sits in silence and lets himself be comforted by the repetitive tugs. His thoughts drift back to the ritual to modify the blood curses on the Sa’alle line. Even leaning heavily on the Force to speed his reading of the datacrons, there’s little he can do to help his understanding of the arcane knowledge written in three languages and using different terms for the same concepts. His thoughts are only interrupted when Morathis scoffs loudly.

Fox snorts in response. “And what’s that about?”

“Absolutely shameful marriage proposal. They seem to be under the mistaken impression that they don’t have to send a proper offer just because I’m gay. As if that matters,” Morathis says.

“Shall I mail them something equally offensive? Reanimated tukata, perhaps?” Fox asks.

“Thank you, but no. We have our own ways of repaying such an offense.”

“I shudder to think.”

“As you should,” Morathis says. He ties off the last braid and admires his work, running one hand from Fox’s crown down the length of his hair. “There, now you’re presentable.”

Fox looks back over his shoulder. “Not for any Imperial function. Not nearly enough gold chain or gemstones.”

“As if I’d let you appear as such a tawdry disaster as the rest of them. We’re above that, dear heart. Don’t forget.”

“You can make your case to Ivan if I ever show my face publically,” Fox says. He pulls the datapad out of the air and tosses it onto the side table and then stands.

Morathis quirks an eyebrow up at him. “You can’t expect me to take ‘all the powers of the Force’ seriously when you don’t even have the final word on your appearance.”

Fox takes his time walking around the chair, trading increasingly skeptical looks with Morathis the whole way. They’re cracking smiles and on the edge of laughter when Fox finally makes it into his personal space. He puts his hand on Morathis’s cheek and then kisses him. As their lips move together, Fox runs one of his hands through Morathis’s short, black hair. Despite his plaiting skills, he has almost none of his own to use for them. 

Fox pulls back just enough to speak. “Are you done making fun of me?”

Morathis grabs the auburn plaits tightly in his hand. He wraps a few around his fist until Fox couldn’t pull away if he wanted to. Though Morathis’ voice is low, it’s sharp with conviction. “Never. So you’d best figure out your little spell.”

\---

Fox sleeps an hour, at most, before leaving Morathis’ bed. He feels no guilt when he cups his lover’s cheek and uses the Force to ensure  _ he _ sleeps the night through. Before leaving, he plants a soft kiss on his lover’s forehead. The halls are empty, not that Fox expected anything else. The house is an ancestral Sa’alle property -- nothing else would work for the ritual to modify the blood curses -- but a small one on the edge of the old forest line before the last Kaas City expansion. One Sybil didn’t care about enough to populate with her spies.

_ Not that I allow any staff I haven’t had Octavian vet within an inch of their life. Not after the last time… _ Fox runs a hand down the front of his robes, over the long scar on his chest. It still burns when his Force defences go down.  _ Something that’s been happening all too often, now that I’m draining myself dry with this karking ritual. _

In his lab, Fox kneels next to the circle and examines the lines etched into the stone floor. They still glow softly and don’t seem to have changed during his time away. Assured that they’re still as they should be, Fox moves on to the odd dripping device that Octavian built. It’s a tangled mass of tubes made of glass, Force crystals and precious metals Fox can’t identify under the mass of enchantments. 

He carefully follows the flow of each one and ensures that his blood flows neither too fast, nor too slow into the grooves in the circle below. When they are all checked, Fox stands over the large copper basin at the end of the contraption. He removes his over robe and it floats of its own accord to the stand in the corner. After several measured breaths, Fox makes a fist of his left hand and uses his right to reopen the vein on the inside of his arm. Blood drips, red and hot into the copper basin where it sizzles before it disappears into the mass of tubes.

Fox temporarily seals the wound with a touch of Force and then turns to the tall table with a row of datacrons. They glow different colors as he touches them. After some consideration he lifts one with a toxic, green light and activates it. Mere moments later, he’s forcibly pulled from his perusal of Sith knowledge by a hand yanking on his arm. Blind to the present, he snarls and prepares a blast of Force energy at his attacker.

“You drugged me!” Morathis’ angry shout pulls enough of Fox’s concentration from the datacron that he loses his connection to it.

As the metal cube stops glowing and falls from the air, Fox jerks his arm out of his lover’s grasp. He bares his teeth as he talks. “You should still be asleep.”

“It’s been eight hours, Fox! How long did you intend to leave me defenseless?”

Fox meets the accusation head-on and red flickers in the yellow of his eyes. “Long enough to get some work done! You can’t stand there and demand I survive, but then refuse to let any progress happen.”

“So one sacrifice is a bridge too far, but drugging me isn’t?”

“Those aren’t even comparable!” Fox shouts back.

“They bloody well should be!”

“Ensuring that  _ you _ get the sleep you’ve been neglecting in favor of pestering me is not tantamount to  _ murder. _ Have you lost your mind?” Fox narrows his eyes and tries to hold back the frothing wave of his emotions so that his Force doesn’t lash out and ruin his ritual circle.

“ _ I _ matter. Who cares about the poor sod you’re sacrificing? Just slit his neck and be done with it.” Morathis gestures sharply across his neck as he says it.

“Everyone matters to someone, Rathi. Or should I go  _ home _ and get Tava and we’ll see how you feel?”

Morathis sighs and the tension flows out of him, but it’s not in defeat or sadness, it’s  _ relief _ that paints his features. He looks away from Fox’s yellow eyes, but reaches out for his wrist. “Good, you’re still there, dear heart.”

Fox lets Morathis take his arm and even puts his free hand over his. “That’s not exactly a fair test when you  _ want _ me to kill someone.”

“It’s not supposed to be fair; it’s supposed to save us from your madness.” Morathis says, his grip tightening.

“I can subsist off of the Force.  _ You _ need sleep.”

“You can’t subsist when every drop of Force you have goes into this fruitless labor. You have pick a sacrifice or do something else.”

Fox sighs and releases Morathis’ hand, though he doesn’t pull his arm away. He summons the datacron to his hand with a touch of Force that he actively  _ feels _ draining him, though he doesn’t admit it. “I am looking for something else.”

“Those are just ways to augment the ritual you already have. I helped you find them; I haven’t forgotten,” Morathis says. His eyes are downturned and his tone edges on defeated.

“I’ve spent  _ years _ looking for a way around this. Augmentation is our best bet, Rathi.”

Morathis turns his head away. “Have Mardh run the numbers.”

“He did,” Fox says, his voice barely louder than the dripping blood. “Augmentation is more likely, but practically speaking, there’s no hope for either.”

Morathis finally meets Fox’s eyes again. “You’ve killed before and for much less. I don’t understand why this has to be different.”

Fox takes hold of his wrist in return. “I’ve never been this close to madness, before. The corruption hasn’t faded for months. Can you- No, could  _ anyone else _ remember the last time my eyes were blue? I can’t, but what’s worse, most of the time  _ I don’t care. _ All that matters anymore is surviving.  _ Fox _ wouldn’t survive the sacrifice.”

\---

That night, when Fox tries to pull away from Morathis to get out of bed, the Chiss’s arms tighten around his waist. Morathis presses his face into the braids at the back of Fox’s neck. “No. You promised you’d sleep.”

Fox holds himself still on the silk sheets. Slowly, he says, “So did you.”

“I lied, as I knew you were lying.” Though Morathis’ voice holds unusual warmth, his tone is also as firm as his grip on his lover. Rest, Fox.”

With a sigh, Fox puts his hand on Morathis’ arm. “ _ Cyare _ -”

“Whatever you say next, my response is the same. Rest.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say,” Fox protests.

Morathis nuzzles into Fox’s hair again and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Not exactly, but you only call me that when you’re trying to get your way. You should know by now: you can’t melt a Chiss heart.”

“I call you that when I’m trying to stress that despite how important whatever I’m asking is, you still matter most.”

“If that were true, you’d give up the argument and get some real rest.”

Fox goes from still to stiff and he tilts his head down. “I’m not used to being on this end of emotional manipulation.”

“Dear heart, at this point, I’m not sure you’ll survive the ten days leading up to her ritual.”

“I’m fine,” Fox says, but there’s no conviction behind his words. He lets Morathis pulls him into the center of the bed and even settles back under the blankets. 

Morathis whispers his next words, but they still strike Fox like physical blows. “I know you’re using an illusion to hide how emaciated you are. I can’t see through it. I don’t want to, but I know it’s there. Do  _ you _ even know how bad it is?”

“Yes,” Fox whispers into the darkness. “But I’m alive. I won’t be if I can’t solve this.” He squeezes Morathis’ wrist. “And I have to spend most of tomorrow in the Citadel.”

“Send Aucht.”

“I have to see Lord Acina. She’ll know it’s not me,” Fox says, surprising himself with the fact that he actually considers it.

“Then send Mardh.”

“I’m not getting Ivan killed.” Fox tries to steer Morathis’ thoughts away from his physical state, though he knows the other man will never stop worrying. “He’s the only one of my friends that actually likes you.”

Morathis makes an annoyed sound, but allows the change of subject. “If you had more than two, you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“Well I can’t make more from your bed,” Fox says. He tries to roll over, but Morathis holds him firmly in place and continues to nuzzle his hair. “I’m going to hack it off if you keep that up.”

Morathis immediately loosens his grip. “You wouldn’t.”

Fox rolls over and puts his hands on Morathis’ cheeks. “I wouldn’t. I love you. If I didn’t, I’d probably just walk into her ritual uncontested.”

“Sybil doesn’t deserve you,” Morathis whispers.

“She’s my  _ sister, _ Rathi.”

“Blood means nothing.”

“If you believed that, we wouldn’t be here right now,” Fox returns. He remembers how they met. Remembers the feel of the cursed dagger pressed into the base of his neck. It pricked him then, a tiny spot of ice and blackened skin that will never go away. It’s the second reason his love for Morathis means he won’t cut his hair. His lover had seemed so weak, then. A delicate, terrified thing demanding to know if the whispers were true. If Fox really would secret away weak Forcer children. And Fox had, at the cost of the silencing of the whisperers.

“Tava would do the same for me in a instant, dear heart. Sybil  _ is _ the death that awaits you.”

“I know; I’m sorry,” Fox says. He presses his forehead to Morathis’. “I’ll stay here another hour, but I  _ must _ get back to my work.”

“It’s an hour more than I expected,” Morathis says, his voice as fragile as the first frost.

“And it’s for that I’m most sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware that Chiss age and mature at a wildly different rate than humans. It was not mentioned or referenced nor will it be. I am not going to invite certain evils into reading my content. If you somehow divined he was Chiss from the summary and came here for said unspecified evils _get the fuck out_.
> 
> If you're confused, check the details on Chiss from Wookiepedia and I'm sure you'll understand why I'm hedging so much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fox has lost the plot.

When only eight days remain, Fox walks with Morathis to the property’s main gate. It’s mid-autumn, but there’s not a stray leaf to be seen anywhere on the grounds. Fox neither keeps slaves nor tortures his servants, but certain appearances must be kept on the Sa’alle properties, or questions will be asked, so the grounds remain pristine and seemingly untouched by weather. Fox won’t be sad to miss the winter.

Just before his boots pass the boundary line, Morathis spins around and catches Fox’s arm before he can even fully raise it. “Fox, no.”

Fox smiles at him, but it doesn’t extend past his mouth. The crinkle between his eyebrows is deep and his eyes are as close to tears as they can be with as much corruption as he has. “We don’t know what she’ll learn from the ritual. If she can see my memories-”

“I said, no,” Morathis says. He tightens his grip on Fox’s wrist and uses it to pull him close. “We protected _home;_ that’s sufficient.”

With his free hand, Fox touches the broken crown pin on Morathis’ lapel. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

“Then let them disown me. They left Tava to die; I owe them nothing,” Morathis says, a foreign fire in his voice.

“The Ascendancy is your life, Rathi,” Fox says. He smooths his hand over the bright uniform jacket.

“Only when I can have both. I threw my lot in with you long ago, Sa’alle.”

Fox looks away, then, unable to bear Morathis’ steady gaze when he’s addressed him that way. The name isn’t any more offense than the fire is anger. Sa’alle is the closest thing Fox has to a root name; Morathis uses it only to imply the utmost intimacy.

Fox takes a shuddering breath and shakes his head. He says, “I won’t be able to protect you when I’m dead.”

“I’ve _never_ needed your protection for myself. We put Tava beyond their reach; you’re my only concern. I won’t leave you.” Morathis’ voice is hot enough to burn and it stirs the fire already blazing under Fox’s skin.

Fox feels his tenuous control slipping, but he lets it be consumed by the fire in his chest. Red flashes in his irises. “Then come back soon, my crown breaker. I may have need of you.”

“You always do,” is all Morathis says before he releases Fox and walks away.

Fox watches him enter the speeder, examines the sharp, precise way he moves his body, no energy wasted. As the speeder disappears behind the property wall, certainty strikes Fox from the Force. His Intuition has never been consistent nor particularly strong, but it’s always correct when it decides to assert itself like it is in this moment.

Some part of Fox’s mind tries to call the certainty _dreadful,_ but living is all he wants and he’s certain he’ll get it. After all, what’s one life for an entire colony?

\---

Hours later, when reading through old datacrons has stilled Fox’s mind enough, he snaps back to himself with a violent thrash that sends the old cubes clattering to the floor. He braces himself against the tall table and gasps for breath. As soon as he can, he shouts, “Ivan! Ivan, I need you!”

“My Lord,” Ivan says when he enters the lab. As ever, the Imperial seems completely unmoved by the panic roiling in the very air. “What do you need?”

Fox clenches his jaw shut as the corruption fights him for control. Corruption is a nicer word than self-preservation instincts. Eventually, he forces words out through gritted teeth and in between gasps. “Don’t let him back on the grounds. Not now. Not until after the end.”

Mardh pales, even in the dim light of the lab, but his expression remains firm. “Would that be Morathis, My Lord?”

“Yes,” Fox says, but it’s not his voice, it’s a hoarse thing that claws at the invisible fear Mardh feels. Fox bares his teeth like some kind of animal and says, “Ask me why, Ivan. You want to know. I can feel it.”

With calculated slowness, Mardh pulls out a datapad and ostensibly fills in the order that Arimo’rathi’seris is prohibited from entering the grounds. When that is completed, he lowers the datapad and looks into Fox’s wild eyes. “I presume you plan to kill him, My Lord.”

Shadows flicker and follow Fox as he approaches Mardh. He looms over his captain and the veins under his skin look black. “Are you afraid, Ivan?”

“No more than usual, My Lord. I knew when I signed on that you would kill me. If this is news to Arimo, on his head it lays.” Mardh doesn’t even blink as he says the words.

Fox touches Mardh in a nightmarish facsimile of a hug that _must_ make Mardh’s skin crawl under his perfectly pressed uniform, but the Imperial doesn’t flinch, so Fox releases him. “You’re such a good slave, Ivan. Now go do your job.”

“As always, My Lord.”

\---

Every minute of the last forty-eight hours passes with a deafening drip of Fox’s blood onto the ritual circle. The sound of it echoes throughout the entirety of the grounds. Fox might’ve thought only he could hear it, but outside of Mardh, all of the staff flinch when the drop lands. The datacrons are abandoned in a pile of smoking scrap metal, with their Force-crystal hearts floating around Fox’s head like some kind of arcane crown.

The circle is complete, hissing and smoking on the laboratory floor as it ravenously gulps up each drop of Fox’s blood. The lines and runes are inscribed on the inside of Fox’s eyelids and he sees them overlaid everywhere he looks. He sits in a quaint windowbox overlooking the manor’s front gate. The wood rots under his touch, but that’s a problem for the slaves.

“My Lord,” Mardh says. He’s been standing at Fox’s shoulder for exactly seventeen drops. The perfectly-groomed Imperial looks none the worse for wear despite the trials of the past weeks.

“You may speak,” Fox’s mouth says, though the words sound like they are coming from a screeching chorus. He likes the sound of it and tilts his head to listen to echoes only he can hear.

“When Arimo returns-”

“You think he will return? Against my orders?” Fox asks. It’s not an interruption because it is always his place to speak.

“You know so. That is all the assurance I need.”

Fox sends his slave the mental image of himself waving a dismissive hand. “Proceed.”

“When Arimo returns, will you need me to take steps to ensure that his sacrifice is unwilling? The numbers predict he will be only too happy to exchange his life for yours, My Lord.”

“Do they?” Fox asks, a whisper of his own voice nearly audible under the chorus. The image of the ritual circle fades slightly.

“Indeed. With his intelligence, it’s a surety that he knows why he was banished from the grounds. Given his past behavior, that should only redouble his conviction that you should live, My Lord.” Mardh bows, though Fox can’t see it with his eyes. The sheer subservience of the gesture brushes pleasantly against Fox’s senses.

“As it was intended.”

With his back still bent, Mardh says, “I expected nothing less. Do you require anything else?”

“Yes. He will be here in two.” Fox doesn’t need to specify of _what._ Another drop falls and though Mardh doesn’t flinch his discomfort is palpable. “See to it that he arrives in my lab without delay.”

When Fox is alone, he runs his hands along the window sill, simply to watch the decay under his bare palms for a moment before rising to his feet and walking unhurriedly to his lab. His footsteps make no sound above the slow drip of his blood. Inside, though the runes and lines glow red and purple, the light barely diffuses through the open room and everything is masked by a haze of red that exists only in the mind.

Fox approaches the standing table and runs his hand along the edge. The durasteel groans under his touch, but seems unchanged. Fox frowns at it and the metal slowly warps under his gaze until the corner is a twisted mass of black, deformed durasteel. A drop falls and the table silently crashes to the stone floor.

He turns just before the door opens, but Fox is still surprised when it does. Instead of the proud, straight-backed man that was his right hand for years, Fox is greeted by a limp figure in a scarlet and black held up by two blank-eyed slaves with brands the shape of his sister’s mark. They stand unnaturally still as two drops fall, waiting.

Rathi’s formerly white uniform is red with blood and black from the curse on his own dagger, the blade still lodged in his chest. If he can still move, he doesn’t. The beating of his heart nearly deafens Fox, but he knows no one else can hear _this._

Fox lifts his chin and looks down at the slaves. His voice is his own and barely above a whisper. “Give Sybil my thanks.”

As one, the slaves release their hold on Rathi and nod their heads in unnatural synchronicity. Rathi crumples to the cold stone even as the slaves leave the lab. Nothing moves for three drops, then Rathi laboriously digs his blood-stained fingers into the stone and pulls himself an inch closer to the glowing circle with a wet drag.

“What is it you think you’re doing?” Fox asks, each word falling from his lips as lightly as a leaf blown from the trees outside. They shiver on the thick tension in the air.

“You’re using me. No matter what you want. You’ve taken my agency so many times; it’s time I took yours,” Rathi’s words come out with wet gurgles and the hilt of his cursed dagger scrapes the stone as he moves. His legs are limp as he drags them, but it’s no wonder with the scarlet covering his back. Paralyzing him had no doubt been intentional, rather than a strike pressed too deeply. Sybil had surely wanted the proud Chiss to feel helpless.

Time slows, in a drop that feels like an eternity, Fox’s vision clears and his hearing returns to normal. The Force crystals fall from the air around his temples with barely audible clinks against the stone floor. He can’t see himself, but he doesn’t _need_ to because his Intuition is back and whispering that his corruption is gone, though it shouldn’t be possible. The strength of his own heart and will shouldn’t come _close_ to the weeks of suffering he’s absorbed for this moment.

But corruption or not doesn’t matter. Rathi is beyond saving and what’s worse, he isn’t a willing sacrifice, he’s one demanding his own death. Outside of Fox’s freshly beating heart, Rathi’s death will mean _nothing_ and in forty-two hours and three minutes, they’ll both be dead. Fox reaches out for Rathi with his hand and with the Force, but freezes in place.

 _That can’t be right. I survive this. I know I do. I must._ Fox watches the last white patch of fabric succumb to redness, as if it will illuminate the situation. His eyes cast desperately around the lab, as if the shattered datacrons will suddenly reveal their secrets. The House Arimo pin falls off of Rathi’s lapel and clinks against the stone floor.

 _No. No, I can’t. I can’t do that. Don’t make me do that,_ cyare _. No._ Fox thinks, his gaze locked on the golden, _broken_ crown. The clarity is so sharp it cuts the already-tattered edges of Fox’s.

“Have to do bloody everything myself with you. Lazy, Afflicted, sod,” Rathi says, the words obvious motivation as he struggles to drag his useless legs toward the circle.

Ice stoppers the bleeding in Fox’s heart and he finally finishes stretching his arm out. A blast of Force escapes his palm and tosses Rathi across the room like a ragdoll abandoned as far from the circle as it could be while still in the same room. Fox steps forward and ensures that the room rings with every heavy touch from his boots. He tilts himself forward in a mockery of concerned inspection of Rathi’s wounds. He can feel every single muscle in his face as it moves to perfectly execute the expressions he needs.

“As if I’d let a pathetic wretch like you ruin my ritual,” Fox says, his voice hard but undeniably his own. He watches Rathi’s red eyes widen as he realizes that Fox is in complete control of himself for maybe the first time in months. “I banished you for a reason, but the arrogant little ice rat always did think he knew better.”

Rathi’s breath visibly labors in his chest and the stains on his uniform darken.

“You never showed any respect for your betters and now you honestly think I’ll let you taint my victory? Foolish is too kind a word for such a disgusting creature. The Ascendancy didn’t want you. Why would I? I am pure power you could never hope to augment.”

Though it clearly costs him, Rathi looks down at the dagger hilt in his chest before his head lolls back to meet Fox’s eyes. He looks stricken, mouth half-open with confusion and shallow panting. There’s fear in Rathi’s eyes for the first time since the day they met. “Sa’alle-”

Fox cuts off whatever Rathi would have said by using the Force to yank the cursed knife from his chest. The bloody hilt _throbs_ in his hand, but Fox ignores it. He grabs the mass of delicate braids in his left hand, the loving plaits loose from days without maintenance. “I’ve always loathed these frivolous things. A hassle, a hindrance in battle, a betrayal of my identity: who would delude themselves into thinking they were good?”

With a single slash, the unnatural blade cuts through all of the auburn hair, leaving Rathi’s blood on the sheared ends and a splash on his cheek. He tosses the loose hair onto his lover’s barely-moving form. Fox snarls out words. “Keep the wretched things. They suit you.”

And it’s in that moment that the hope dies in Rathi’s eyes. They close and slowly, agonizingly, the emotion clears off of his face. His blue skin is pale from blood loss and as still as a frozen lake in the dark of the night. After four drops, he tilts his chin up as much as he can and says, “As you say, My Lord.”

Fox tosses the knife away like so much garbage, unnaturally aware of how it sinks into the thick leather of Rathi’s boot and pierces his foot. He feels it, even though Rathi can’t. He turns and doesn’t look back. At the threshold, he pauses with one hand on the door frame. He snaps the fingers on his left hand and the lamps extinguish along with the eerie purple glow from the runes. “Try not to ruin anything else.”

The door closes solidly behind Fox and a Force barrier escapes him and blocks all sound from entering the cold, dark, laboratory. Then he falls to the floor himself, his bloody right hand pressed to his heart. Tears rip themselves from his eyes with a vengeance matched only by the crippling sobs clawing their way out of his chest. The fury of his grief only redoubles as dark power slowly seeps into him.

It starts at a slow creep, but then rushes in like the tide. Fox only wishes he could drown in it.

\---

Hands hot as brands touch Fox’s face and tilt his sightless eyes vaguely up. They disappear for a moment before one pats his cheek lightly. When still Fox doesn’t respond, they shake his shoulders. After a few minutes of this, Fox decides to hear again.

“-to Force, but you’re not immune to blasters,” Mardh says.

With a technique that is purely Force, Fox says, “I can’t leave him.”

“Firstly, Aucht is _not_ allowed to teach you anymore techniques. Secondly, _we must leave_. Sybil is burning down the main house. It’s only a matter of time before she thinks to search for you in the Force and brings her cult here.”

It takes several attempts, but Fox eventually manages to make his jaw and tongue and throat and lungs work in some semblance of order. “I can’t leave him.”

“What you can’t do, Fox, is let his suffering have been in vain. Get up.” Mardh yanks on his arm and when that yields no results, he growls and hauls Fox to his feet, bearing the full weight on his shoulders.

 _Not that it can be too much,_ Fox thinks, vision still blurry. _I can’t remember the last time I ate. Or drank. Or slept._

“Come along. I didn’t think we’d make it to today, but I prepared nonetheless.”

 _Of course you did, Ivan. I don’t deserve you._ Fox blinks a few times and tries to focus on the door to his lab. He doesn’t want anyone to touch it, to look at it, to think about it. When his vision finally clears, there _is_ no door. The banded durasteel has been transmuted into an alchemized slab of stone-steel hybrid. The bands and rivets that once strengthened the door now wear the shape of a broken crown.

Fox’s vision starts to go again, but after a second he realizes it’s because he’s crying. “I can’t leave him.”

“Fox, we have to _go_.”

“I _can’t_.”

Mardh makes an annoyed sound. “Don’t you dare be cross with me later.” Mardh takes a deep breath and then speaks a lyrical, Mandalorian phrase that he shouldn’t know. “ _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la._ He’s not in there, Fox.”

Fox closes his eyes on the tears and nods as much as he can. More than half-carried by Mardh, Fox shuffles away from the door.

\---

The medical equipment hums and buzzes louder than the ship’s engines. Fox lays propped up on, and strapped into, a medical cot. A nest of tubes and cables as complicated as Aucht’s blood contraption connect him to the array of medical equipment. He can’t name any of the devices or their exact purposes and wonders for the first time if perhaps he should learn.

He looks over at Mardh. The Imperial is sitting in a comfortable-looking chair reading through a report on his datapad. Despite the horror of the past month, he looks as stoic as ever. The only difference Fox can see is a new tightness around his eyes.

“Ivan?”

“Yes?” Mardh doesn’t bother looking up from his work.

“Why do you stay? The treason, the madness… Surely you can find better work,” Fox says. His voice is completely unaugmented by the Force and weak and reedy as a result.

“I’m Intelligence,” Mardh says. He changes his screen to the next report, but says nothing else.

“That’s not an answer.”

Mardh takes his sweet time replying. It’s one of his many small revenges for Fox’s behavior under the corruption. Fox doesn’t mind in the least. Eventually, Mardh says, “Until you attempt to implement a kill switch in my brain or take over my mind, I’m satisfied with my current employment.”

Fox considers the words carefully, turning them over in his mind, but he doesn’t know much about Imperial Intelligence. He hired Mardh so he wouldn’t _have_ to know anything about Imperial Intelligence. At length, he says, “Is there anyone I should kill for you?”

Still at his own pace, Mardh continues to peruse the report. “Those will all be handled in due time. I am more than capable.”

“...If you’re sure.”

Mardh makes an annoyed sound. “Look at yourself, Fox. More than half-dead even after two weeks on life support. You’re much better at saving people than at killing them. Why don’t you focus on that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh this was just so much fun to write. I can't really explain the glee I felt as Fox got progressively more evil and lost more and more control. Usually it's only slight lapses, but in this it's like the nightmare that doesn't stop.
> 
> To reflect the events of this story, a chapter is going to be added to The Fox and the Hound soon. :)
> 
>  _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la._ Not gone, merely marching far away.


End file.
